Possession
by Thayne M
Summary: Set during S01E08, "The Man In the Fallout Shelter." The conversation about Christmas and god takes Booth and Brennan to a place they never thought they'd be: agreement. Total B/B yums. Oneshot.


**Title:** _Possession_  
**Author:** _Thayne MacHern_  
**Pairing:** _B/B, of course!_  
**Rating:** _Hm...let's go with T (PG16, on LJ)_  
**Spoilers:** _Maybe S01E08, "The Man In the Fallout Shelter"_  
**Summary:** _Set during S01E08, "The Man In the Fallout Shelter." The conversation about Christmas and god takes Booth and Brennan to a place they never thought they'd be: agreement._  
**Inspiration:** _"Possession," by Evans Blue_

She watched, motionless, her eyes trailing over his well-defined muscles, made apparent by the white undershirt that hugged him so tightly. He was stoned, but surprisingly coherent. In fact, the only thing the drugs seemed to effect was his modesty, which was obvious by the way he pressed close to her, faces close, breathing his words against her. And they made sense. She didn't know if she was infected with a virus, but she was more than happy to go through the treatment, just in case. It would never convince her to believe in god, but he did make a convincing argument. If only he weren't so close and she could think more clearly, then maybe she'd be able to deliver a clever comeback. Instead, the only counterpoint she could make was _uhhhh_.

Why wasn't he moving, she wondered. He was just staring at her now, like he was expecting her to either agree with him or fight him on the point. She wasn't sure she could do either at this point, so she cleared her throat and tried to speak as best she could. When she did, her voice came out a little ragged and quiet, like a harsh whisper, "I'm trying to figure out who killed our guy." She started to turn away, her fingers suddenly stiff and stupid as they fumbled uselessly with her microscope, attempting to adjust it to a higher setting.

And then one of Booth's large hands was covering her smaller one, making her turn back to look him in the eye once more, "Temperance." _Uh oh_. Anytime he used her first name, he was almost always about to say something deep and meaningful that left her stunned and wanting a little more from him than a strictly-professional partner should be allowed. If she flinched—and she felt like she did—he didn't notice. He just went on, "Can't you let yourself be carefree for even a little while? All this—working late into the night in a quarantined lab—is not in the spirit of Christmas."

His eyes, so soft but strong, were burning through her and she had to look away, letting her eyes fall on the glass slide beneath the scope, "What about him? Doesn't he deserve some 'Christmas cheer' too?"

"Yeah," Booth's voice was ever-so-gentle as he nodded, "But his Christmas cheer can wait until a reasonable hour. You need sleep."

Brennan scoffed, but had to simultaneously hold back the yawn that had begun to rise in her throat. She was about to reply when she noticed Booth's thumb was brushing over the back of her hand, a soft sensation that repeated over and over again until her nerves were so alight with want that it burned through her stomach and pushed about a gallon of adrenaline into her brain, making her dizzy. She must have teetered a bit from the sudden rush, because the next thing she knew Booth was reaching out to loop his free arm around her waist, hand resting on her lower back and pulling her closer. Once she was steady, he looked her over, face tight with worry, "Bones? You okay?" He was concerned—genuinely concerned for her well-being. And not because he had an agenda, or because he felt obligated, but because he honestly didn't want to see anything happen to her. She found this mind-boggling: here was a man that, just moments before, had been arguing with her about something he believed so vehemently, and she'd done nothing but disregard his beliefs and give him every reason to be angry with her, but here he was, brow furrowed over a little dizzy spell.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd had something like that, and before she knew it, she'd been swept up in the moment. Whether it was the drugs, the fatigue, the pure emotion, or Jolly Ol' Saint Nick, she had no idea; all she knew was that she'd grabbed a handful of white cotton and was pulling the agent forward until he was even closer than he'd been before. And then, tentatively, afraid that he might pull away—reject her—she turned up her chin and stretched her neck until her lips were on Booth's, and they were sharing in their first true kiss.

Booth was taken off-guard for only the briefest of moments before his body began reciprocating in every way possible. The arm around the doctor's waist pressed in, pulling her until their bodies were only inches apart, her hand caught between them. The hand that held hers gave it a squeeze and continued to draw lazy circles there. He lips slanted against hers, kissing her back with such an unguarded passion that he literally _felt_ her gasp against his mouth.

Brennan's hand, still sandwiched securely between their two bodies, released the bunch of fabric and flatted against Booth's chest, then slowly traced downward until her fingers were running over the sculpted ripples of his abdomens. Now it was his turn to gasp, and the doctor took the opportunity to slip her tongue between his lips, finding his own within and making introductions, the two muscles twining together so familiarly, as if they'd been acquainted many times before. Brennan wasn't one to theorize premeditated destinies, but if anything could convince her that certain things were just meant to happen, this would be it; the way she and Booth seemed to just _fit_, like two bones of an incomplete skeletal system. And she was suddenly so grateful to Jack and his holiday alcoholism, and willing to concede that Valley Fever might actually be worth the cranial injection, just for this moment in time.

As this thought passed through her mind, another quickly followed and she pulled away from Booth so suddenly that he almost fell forward and off of his stool. Brennan returned his confused expression with one of apology, and then asked in a small voice, "How much of this is you?"

One of his eyebrows shot up and he looked around, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind her words by using clues on the walls. He was actually taking a moment to regain his composure, his mind still not completely able to process the fact that he'd _finally_ gotten to kiss Temperance Brennan. On Christmas Eve, no less. Finally, he asked, "What do you mean?"

She blushed a little, regretting putting this distance between them, unable to cap the desire that continued to build within her, "I mean, you're…drugged. I just—how can I be sure that you're actually in control of yourself?"

Booth smirked in that cocky way of his that drove Brennan crazy in both the positive and negative sense of the word. He stood, towering over her, his chest even with her eye line, and spoke softly, "Ah, Bones—I'm _not_ in control of myself," he leaned down, lips unbearably close to her ear, whispering his words there and shaking every part of her to life, "But its got nothing to do with the drugs." Then he was kissing her again, pushing her back against the counter, hands travelling over her waist and back and stomach, exploring every inch of her, making up for lost time.

And it was all she needed. Even if morning came and she discovered he had, in fact, been more influenced by the drugs than he claimed, she wouldn't regret it. Because, drugs or not, Booth was Booth, and it was Booth whose hands were on her. Booth whose lips molded so perfectly against hers. Booth who lifted her onto that cold metal table and let her touch him back. She very rarely ever wanted for anything, but this was something she'd been craving for almost a year now, and she wouldn't say no.

**A/N:  
Okay, first off, I would like to express my apologies to any religious folks. I, myself, am Wiccan, but I have nothing against other religions. Most of my friends (and a lot of my own family) are either Catholic or Christian. So please don't be offended by the fact that I don't capitalize the word "god." Its not a shot at anyone; its just an old habit based on a personal opinion that I don't wish to go into, because I don't want to have any bad confrontations. I have respect for everyone. Truly.  
That being said, what did you think of the story? Its kind of one of those meaningless "bow-chikka-bow-wow" fics, but its late and I have nothing better to do. Please R&R, or else I have no reason to write these pretties.**


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